


praying to a god you only half believe in

by goodbyechunkylemonmilk



Series: you looked as if you were going to cry and everyone was waiting and you didn't you didn't [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anxiety Disorder, Brotherhood, Codependency, Gen, M/M, Phobias, Quidditch, References to Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-27
Updated: 2013-03-27
Packaged: 2017-12-06 16:53:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/737950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodbyechunkylemonmilk/pseuds/goodbyechunkylemonmilk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Regulus says, when Sirius comes back from his first year, “At least now you've gone and gotten yourself sorted into Gryffindor, no one will care you can't play Quidditch,” and he means it a little cruelly, feels a thrill of satisfaction when Sirius flushes and crosses his arms over his chest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	praying to a god you only half believe in

**Author's Note:**

> references to abusive parents
> 
> section title from warsan shire (http://warsanshire.tumblr.com/post/27926014035/8-32-pm)  
> 

Fifth year, Regulus wakes up early the day of Gryffindor Quidditch tryouts because Sirius will go to pieces and James won't know why or how or what to do, might not even notice because Sirius' version of going to pieces is strangely quiet for someone who wears his anger on his face, gritted teeth and wild eyes. But anger is very much a Black emotion, while fear is not, officially, so of course he's learned to suppress one but not the other. (Regulus is just bitter, maybe, as he's learned to suppress neither.)

“Regulus!” James intercepts him on his way out of the Great Hall, flanked by Remus and Peter and not Sirius, which he notes with a jolt of concern but no real surprise. “Do you know where Sirius is? He wasn't in his bed when we woke up, and try-outs are in an hour. I figured he'd be down here, but-- Well.” He shrugs and nods toward Remus and Peter. They always seem to be one or two steps behind him and Sirius, which Regulus knows logically is just because the latter two walk rather abnormally fast, but never fails to strike him as as procession trailing after royalty.

“No, I don't.” He doesn't explain that growing up in Grimmauld meant learning to be small, and Sirius has not forgotten, not even now that he's decided instead to make himself big, so big he fills Regulus' field of vision whenever they're in the same room he doesn't explain that he knows exactly where Sirius is, because it's knowledge he's earned and James hasn't, because James has gotten the brighter side of Sirius and ought to be made to pay for the privilege.

“That's all right, I mean, I have a way to find him, it's just that I left it upstairs.” James rummages through his pockets for a moment, as if checking one last time will make whatever he's searching for appear. Then he leans in, whispers conspiratorially, “I'm kind of worried. He's been nervous, which I'm not supposed to realize, I don't think. I keep telling him he'll make the team, but it doesn't seem to help.” Regulus stifles a laugh. “Anyway, you ought to keep an eye out as well.” James stays still for a moment, watching as if he suspects the lie, then nods and starts off, the other two trailing behind.

Regulus is, by now, well practiced at letting his shoulder brush against the tapestry in just the right way to get himself sucked in, though he's never done it with Sirius inside before. For a moment, he thinks he still hasn't, his eyes struggling to adjust to the dark, but finally he makes out a desk in the corner and, well, of course. He rounds it quietly, rising onto his toes even though he must have lost the element of surprise as soon as he fell through the opening; when he ducks down, Sirius makes eye contact but otherwise doesn't move, arms wrapped around bent knees and the top of his head just barely brushing the underside of the desk.

“This is stupid,” Sirius says, voice so low Regulus has to lean in further to catch it. “It's not that bad once I'm in the air, but the anticipation— It's worse in my head.” He laughs harshly. “You'd think after all these years—”

“No, I wouldn't.” Because Regulus is the one who bites his tongue three times whenever he misspeaks, shuts his eyes against raised voices, has lips constantly cracked and bleeding because he only stops chewing them to focus on his nails.

Sirius droops, mimics, “No, you wouldn't. Sorry.” Regulus shrugs. “Do you remember what you said when I asked you to help me practice for try-outs?”

Regulus winces because of course he does, because they both do, because James has always been a sticking point for them, and not because he is a Gryffindor, as Sirius likes to pretend when he's feeling particularly difficult, but because James has never proven himself to be worth the dedication Sirius shows, definitely isn't worth shaking hands clenched bone white on a broom handle. “That it was pathetic?”

“Yes _,_ and you wereright, and I can'tdo it. What's that make me? I'm too much of a wimp to even be properly pathetic.”

“You're not pathetic. I just said that to be mean. I'd do the same if.” But there's no one he would make the sacrifice for except Sirius, who he's no longer sure would do the same for him. “Potter's looking for you, so you'd better not cry,” Regulus says, voice carefully flat. “He says he has some way to track you. Little weird, don't you think?”

“I'm not going to _cry,_ ” Sirius mutters, two fingers pressed to the pulse point in his neck. Regulus imagines he can hear the beat of his sped-up heart. “Bloody hell.”

“Has he seen you cry?” And there is no way, considering their relationship, for this to be anything but a challenge, but Regulus means it, wonders, feels vaguely territorial.

“ _Reg_...” His voice is soft like Regulus hasn't heard in years, the way it was when their parents screamed and Sirius' hand on his arm kept him silent.

“Sorry.”

Sirius purses his lips, halfway to a pout, says, “He has, though. Of course he has. We live together.”

“The other two as well then?”

The fingers still resting on Sirius' neck twitch almost reflexively so the nails dig into his skin and leave angry marks. “No.”

“I'm not trying to mock you, I just—” But there's no neat way to explain the mix of possessiveness and concern that's making his breakfast curdle low in his stomach. He should have known better than to bring it up anyway; Sirius is sensitive about this, hates to be reminded that he's broken down in front of the entirety of pureblood high society more than once, so of course Bellatrix _does_ remind him at every family gathering, and Regulus doesn't need to put himself in that category.

Before he can figure out what he wants to say, a loud noise comes from the portraithole and James lands, rumpled, in the room. Sirius takes the opportunity to get composed, shoots from under the desk and straightens up, brushes imaginary grime from his robes and wipes his eyes even though Regulus would have heard if he'd cried. “James.”

“You lied,” James says, and the guilt on Sirius' face gives him away so badly that he's lucky James is looking at Regulus. “You did know where he was.”

“Lucky guess.”

Blacks are nothing if not good at banding together to hide inadequacies despite all logic to the contrary, so Regulus steps between James and Sirius as if the truth needs to be physically shielded from him, even as he mutters, a little too loud, “You ought to tell him. He has a history of finding your dysfunction charming.” Then he thinks about it, and, well, if Sirius wanted the Black family code to apply to him, maybe he shouldn't have tried so hard to separate himself from them. “Sirius is afraid of heights.”

“I'm not afraid of _heights._ ” But this is Sirius' mistake, because they've had this conversation before, teasing and harsh in turns, so his protest is not of fear in general, but rather emphatically of this specific one, and under James' concerned gaze, he fidgets before continuing, “Not _really_. Flying, though. Maybe.”

This next part is a gift, though Regulus doubts it will be seen as one. “The first time he got on a broom, he threw up.” Sirius can manage self-deprecation better than most, knows how to make gut-wrenching stories laughable, has certainly spent enough time working on the tone that can turn hours spent hiding, breath bated and eyes wet, into a joke.

“I did not,” Sirius says, smirk carefully in place. It's all in the mannerisms, which is why Regulus can never quite pull it off: his eyes are always a little watery, shoulders a little tense. “That was the _second_. I cried the first. Get it together, Reg.”

“He'll make the team though,” Regulus says, challenging. “He's really good.”

James turns to Sirius as if he hasn't heard anything. “Why didn't you tell me?”

“You liked Quidditch.” And despite everything, despite years of friendship, Sirius can't quite manage to sound like he doesn't still believe the logic when he says, “I wanted you to like me.” He does his best to cover it up, groaning dramatically at James' downturned mouth. “Don't look at me like that, I was eleven and stupid. I'd never had a friend before.”

“What was I then?” Regulus demands.

Sirius looks up at him, eyes wide as if there could be any doubt, and says, “My brother,” decisively and with a confused sort of smile so for once Regulus hears it like it means something, like it is not in some way lesser than _friend_. “You're my brother. Don't be stupid.”

Regulus bites his lip, certain he should have a response but so completely at a loss for what it ought to be that he's almost grateful when James cuts in, “So you don't like Quidditch?”

“I like watching?”

James looks at him for a moment, then grins. “Good. I _was_ worried about losing the leader of my cheering section.” And all right, Regulus lied, because it honestly is pathetic the way the tension drains from Sirius' shoulder, but it's not noteworthy, not like the way Potter's smile changes when he sees, becomes something small and private, and finally Regulus admits that his suspicion may have been misplaced.

He snorts. “You two are disgusting.”

“No one asked you.” Sirius wrinkles his nose at him. “James, can you give me a minute with Regulus? We need to have a talk about _keeping our mouths shut_.”

“Oh, um. All right. Tryouts are starting soon, so I'll just.” He jerks his thumb over his shoulder toward the portraithole, but doesn't move at first, looking between them at the thin line of Sirius' mouth and then at Regulus like he's scared for him.

“ _Well?_ ” It's probably the rudest Sirius has ever been to James, and Regulus doesn't know whether to be worried or vindictively pleased by the wide-eyed shock on his face as he leaves.

“Are you mad at me?” he asks, words muffled by the hand that's found its way to his mouth. His front teeth split his nail farther than they should, and the tip of his thumb turns pink as blood rushes to the surface.

“I wouldn't have told him.” Regulus bites down a second nail, then a third waiting for Sirius' expression to change. Finally, when he's working on his pinky, Sirius smiles, repeats, “I wouldn't have told him, but. I really hate Quidditch. I'd say thanks if I didn't think it would encourage you, you big-mouthed prat.” He slugs Regulus on the shoulder, an affectation clearly picked up from James but somehow not annoying because of it. “Well, I was planning to spend the next hour or so at tryouts, and the one after that trying to calm down, but I suppose now I've got some free time, maybe we could...” He trails off, frowning when Regulus doesn't fill in the blank. “I mean.” Sirius is not the type of person to say _I miss you_ , but he does mumble, shoulders hunched, “It's weird not living right across the hall from you,” and Regulus nods, sits on top of the desk and pats the space next to him, waits to smile until Sirius relaxes onto it.


End file.
